


Pickman's Overthinking

by Precipice



Category: Cthulhu Mythos - Fandom, Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft
Genre: Character Study, Gen, of sorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2013-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-30 13:08:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1019012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Precipice/pseuds/Precipice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a method to Richard Pickman's madness.</p><p>***</p><p>Have you ever had an idea claw its way out of your skull? And if yes, have you ever wondered how it got there in the first place?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pickman's Overthinking

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Одержимость Пикмана](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1032754) by [Kalgary_Nurse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalgary_Nurse/pseuds/Kalgary_Nurse)



"Draw what you see." they told him.  
  
And the child did as he was told.  
  
He drew his house (home), cold and old and gray, made from stone and wood and dead things, with cracks in the base and holes in the walls and the door closed shut, with many eyes peering through the windows, and even more fingers poking through the cracks and through the holes and from underneath the door, fingers that were scratching and clawing and beckoning... beckoning... beckoning...   
  
"Draw what you see." they told him.  
  
And the boy did as he was told.  
  
He drew his mother's vase, white and blue and fragile, filled with water, salty water, green water, old water, and flowers, flowers, flowers, white and green and then yellow and brown, old flowers, rotting flowers, sweet-smelling flowers. He drew his cousins, and he drew his aunts, and he drew his uncles, but he didn't let them have their (his) pictures because he knew they would nod (tremble) and they would smile (lie) and later they would burn them in the fireplace.   
  
"Draw what you see." they told him.  
  
And the man did as he was told.  
  
He drew his cat, lean and striped and yellow-eyed, each bone and vein and organ, with the bloodied head of a sparrow in her mouth. He drew his grandmother's tea set, the chipped porcelain and the rat in the teapot and the children's (milk) teeth in the sugar bowl. He drew his fiancée once, oil on canvas and three sleepless nights and he made her pink because pink was her favorite color, but when her family saw the finished painting (gift) they cancelled the engagement and when she saw the finished painting (truth) she told him to never call on her again.   
  
He drew his friends, but then he lost them but he kept the drawings but he never looked at them again because he had seen them and drawn them and it hadn't been enough. He drew trees, and buildings, and the sky, and he drew from life and from death and from dreams. He drew, he drew, he drew...   
  
... and he was drawn as well.   
  
"Draw what you see."  _they_  told him.  
  
And the artist did as he was told.  
  
He saw  _them_ , and he drew  _them_  - walking, dancing, singing, crouching, eating, grinning, and beckoning... beckoning... beckoning...   
  
... until he became one of  _them_.


End file.
